Oh, Common Life

The Detroit quintet's third LP is pop-punk for the same reasons that determine most genre affiliations—pedigree and presentation. There are enormous instant-singalong melodies here that could potentially trigger gag reflexes, but they unify a record of expansive range and clever writing. Fireworks have made an exceedingly catchy record that candidly and intelligently grapples with struggles of adulthood.

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In a literal sense, many indie bands evolved not from Velvet Underground or Sonic Youth, but Smash, Dookie, or Enema of the State—**records that served as beginner's manuals and inspired musicians in great numbers to buy their first guitar. But it's apparent that when one engages with pop-punk, it’s less of a “phase” than a vaccination—a crucial inoculation that makes you immune to it for the rest of your life, presumably for society's benefit. So it’s not surprising that pop-punk isn’t afforded the same cachet amongst critics as similarly youth-oriented genres: after all, there’s nothing subversive or cool about your 13-year-old self, and there haven’t been many examples of its practitioners aging gracefully.

But why hasn’t pop-punk aged with its listeners without devolving into bloated classic rock, tentative maturity or sad, keep on keepin’ on nostalgia? Is it the music itself that loses its effect? What is it about pop-punk’s forthright melodicism and tendency towards plainspoken, true-to-life lyrics that don't translate to adulthood? These are necessary points to consider, because with Oh, Common Life, Fireworks have made an exceedingly catchy pop-punk record that candidly and intelligently grapples with the same struggles of adulthood you might expect from the National.

The Detroit quintet's third LP is pop-punk for the same reasons that determine most genre affiliations—pedigree and presentation. There are enormous instant-singalong melodies here that could potentially trigger gag reflexes, but they unify a record of expansive range and clever writing. While the tambourine-shaking hook of “Bed Sores” beams with the summer sun clarity of Jimmy Eat World's Bleed American, the call-and-response between the ascending vocal lines and descending guitar leads during the verse could be outsourced from a Squeeze song. There’s caustic, shoegaze dissonance droning through the slippery-when-wet power balladry of “The Back Window’s Down”, while “The Only Thing That Haunts This House Is Me” manages the lyrical and melodic bite of Elvis Costello. It still hits the same teen-friendly pleasure centers of Oh, Common Life's more puritanical predecessor Gospel, but this isn’t “try this at home” stuff for novice musicians.

As compositionally impressive as Fireworks have become, it’s the maturation of David Mackinder’s lyricism that provides a rare vitality to Oh, Common Life that lends the record both depth and breadth. It’s in a similar space as last year’s The Greatest Generation, a landmark release by Fireworks’ tourmates the Wonder Years, where one frames their own doubts and failings in the context of their family’s historical struggles: World War II, the Detroit riots, teenage parenthood, immigration and the grim inheritance of assumed upward mobility. Both the Wonder Years' Dan Campbell and Mackinder are relative veterans who gravitated towards a reaction to their suburban upbringings defined by marriage, children, homeownership, and security. But now that they’re staring down 30, success in a young man’s game has left them to wonder if their parents were actually onto something about where one derives true substance in life.

So even as Mackinder’s voice maintains the Sour Patch Kid acidity it exuded on earlier tracks like “Dave Mackinder vs. the World”, the lyrics on Oh, Common Life heartbreakingly demonstrate the crushing admittance of defeat, such as the moments before the glammed-up chorus of "Glowing Crosses": “Always thought I was headed somewhere/ Never thought I’d just end up.” Oh, Common Life is one of the most legitimately sad records I’ve come across of late, its irrepressible tunefulness never deflecting the pain within or mocking it, instead signifying a resilience reflecting the reality that the world doesn’t stop for your crises regardless of impotent longing (“The Back Window’s Down”), alcoholic escape (“Flies on Tape”), and self-pity (“One More Creature Dizzy With Love”).

Because of its pop-punk trappings, there is a good chance Oh, Common Life will be dismissed by some: every song wants to be the single (some during the second half don't quite get there) and those reared on real indie rock might have to avert their ears to the production’s blinding sheen. Spend enough time around this stuff, though, and those aspects don't smack of cynicism or careerism, but out of accountability to people who gravitate towards this music: not just "kids", but post-grads with real debts, normal jobs and steady lives outside major media centers being told Vampire Weekend, "Girls", and Frances Ha are definitive documents of their generation rather than accurate representations of the subcultures responsible for them. Not that those are the only people who should find something to love here—Fireworks hit home with anyone who feels like they’re operating without a net, so for those who have already gotten their pop-punk vaccination, Oh, Common Life is a necessary booster shot.